


I Hear You're Pretty Rad at the Close Range Flying Dino Stuff

by nottonyharrison



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Mutual Pining, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4353434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottonyharrison/pseuds/nottonyharrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day four off the island, day four of never ending emails. Day four of restraining herself from googling her name. Day four of scattered thoughts and panic, gulit, and desperation to turn the clock back to the moment the Masrani board demanded the bigger, scarier, more dangerous attraction. Day four of imagining she had quit her job three years ago when the underlying feeling of dread had first begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's a guy standing at the very front of the crowd, holding a sign that says 'Capitalists are cunts', taunting a security guard trying to snatch it from his hands. An American news crew is clustered a few yards away, yelling instructions at the guard who probably wouldn't pass the fitness test required for the job had he applied for it today.

The guy with the sign is standing on the temporary fencing now, wobbling a little as people around him hold his legs and yell at the guard to piss off. The rest of the crowd is pushing and shouting and nobody notices the guy in the Jurassic World baseball cap slip through the front doors of the hotel, holding a brown paper bag and a container of soda. A few moments later, the Capitalists are cunts guy has fallen head first over the railing, the media surges forward to capture his misfortune for the masses, and the man in the baseball cap is standing in an empty elevator waiting for the doors to close.

Three hours on, the fries and burger are gone, the soda container has stopped dripping condensation on the nightstand, and Owen Grady is watching the whole drama unfold on a local news channel while doing pushups in the tiny living area of the hotel studio. The report about the demonstration incident is followed by a related one about foreign investment liability in Costa Rica, and then yet another snappily edited selection of clips showing Claire shooting the Pteradon, Claire luring the T-Rex from her paddock, and Claire hugging her nephews.

Even temporarily without a Chief Executive, Masrani Global Corporation has no problems flexing its political influence. Owen returns to his exercise routine and lets his mind wander back to Claire, who he hasn't seen since the hangar four days ago.

As far as he's aware, Claire's staying in the same hotel, put up in one of the premium bungalows down at the water's edge. The rest of her family has already returned home, their arrival back in the states splashed all over the news, after a disgruntled In-Gen employee leaked the flight details to FOX News. TMZ had managed to dredge up the details of Karen and Scott's divorce, and someone else ran a story about Claire and Karen's parents' car accident fifteen years ago. Owen is still baffled about how he was still only known to the media as _Hunky Park Employee Number One._

In an abstract way, he's aware his anonymity won't last. Between investigations and depositions and the media frenzy, his identity isn't going to be a secret for long. Barry's already been thrust in front of the press by their corporate puppet masters, making a statement about the velociraptors as soon as it was deemed appropriate. Owen's just relieved he's been pegged as too emotionally volatile to shove a suit on and feed to the wolves. Barry's not sure whether to be proud or pissed that his new designation is _Hunky Park Employee Number Two._ He's definitely proud of the twitter hashtag #HPE2, which trended worldwide for all of about fifteen minutes. He's pissed that he's become the face of this year's biggest clusterfuck by default.

The only people Owen knows - outside of the park and the Navy - all see him as the chubby kid who volunteered at the animal shelter. Four days of being splashed across the world's media, and still nobody's recognized _Hunky Park Employee Number One_ as Owen Grady, the math nerd puppy whisperer, who sat in the back of class and drew superheroes all over his binder. He just hopes the when his estranged parents finally put the face to the name, they're being shown the buff velociraptor handler who helped saved a bunch of tourists, rather than a slave to corporate greed and excess. He doesn't want his parents thinking he turned out like them.

…

The ambient light from the television is comfortably familiar, and Claire glances up when a cacophony takes over from the reporter, just in time to see a man with a blurred out placard tumble head over heels onto concrete. The image switches to one of Barry and some Masrani spin doctors at a press conference. Barry looks like his tie is strangling him, and she can see the light sheen of sweat across his brow. Then there's a shot of herself holding the flare, and she changes the channel to infomercials.

_We are determined to do everything in our power to contain the avian dinosaurs, and ensure the safety of the population nearby Isla Nublar. We have assembled a team of animal behavior and containment exeperts who have not been affected by the incident on the island, and are already in the process of recovering these assets._

Claire makes a face and deletes the words. Day four off the island, day four of never ending emails. Day four of restraining herself from googling her name. Day four of scattered thoughts and panic, gulit, and desperation to turn the clock back to the moment the Masrani board demanded the bigger, scarier, more dangerous attraction. Day four of imagining she had quit her job three years ago when the underlying feeling of dread had first begun.

Claire isn't without conscience, she's aware her ambition has been her downfall. She doesn't wish she had been born with something other than a Type-A personality, but she does wish she had had the foresight to realize this ambition with a company with slightly less public liability responsibility. Like a global fuel manufacturer, or big pharma. Maybe an investment bank. It's not like Masrani didn't have at least one of each under it's enormous umbrella.

She shuts her laptop, tosses it to the other end of the couch, and stalks to the door, not bothering to put on shoes or a clean pair of shorts. The sand under her feet is rough and there are shells digging hard into her heels. She walks to the edge of the dry sand , sits down hard, digs her toes into the edge of the tide mark, and cries.

…

Owen sometimes lets his mind drift to that moment after Claire saved him from the dimorphodon. Not the kiss - because he actually feels a bit weird about kissing her unexpectedly and without warning, in front of her nephews and a bunch of terrified strangers - but more the swell of admiration he felt before the kiss. Like his heart was going to expand to the size of his lungs, and he was going to keel over because his entire chest cavity is now heart and fuck you know a human needs to breathe but hey it's okay you just nearly got mauled to death by a flying dinosaur clone and there's this glorious woman standing in front of you with a gun and OF COURSE you're going to want to spend the rest of your life with her in that moment...

And then Owen glosses over the almost embarrassingly chaste kiss every time. He thinks about how he wants to press Claire into a wall and feel her warm and alive against his body. He thinks about his hands on her waist, gripping soft enough for her to move a tiny bit closer, but hard enough to keep her exactly where he wants her, which thanks to his masochism is just close enough to touch when both of them breathe in, but not close enough to feel each others' body heat and thudding heartbeats.

He wants to run his stubble up her neck and scratch it against her cheek. He wants to feel her breath against his neck, and run his tongue across her earlobe.

He wants to spend weeks dancing around what they could be, cook her dinners and rescue a dog and look after her nephews for the weekends when their parents decide to have secret dirty recently divorced weekends away together.

He wants to kiss her again for the first time up against the refrigerator when she's grabbing a beer, and the cold air's spilling out of the icebox. He wants to fuck her on the kitchen counter after months of teasing and touching and near kisses that turn into whimpers and long moments of lips pressed against pulse points.

He wants to go back to that moment where he said they should stick together, take her hand, and not let go until one of them needs to take a piss or something.

He wants to argue with her _oh god he wants to argue with her_. He wants to see rage and indignation in her eyes, and the glorious line of her raised eyebrows that make her look like she could eat him alive.

She can eat him alive. He's not pretending she can't. He knows as soon as he tries to assert any dominance over her, she'll probably push him away and leave him alone with a boner and steamy memories of near kisses and barely there body contact.

It's when he gets to the shoving away part that he drags himself back to reality, because really who needs to be fantasizing about opportunities that are probably best left forgotten.

…

About half way through day five, Claire starts to feel caged in, so she orders a long dark brown wig over the internet that sets her back three hundred dollars. It doesn't arrive until Day Seven, by which time the Masrani Global COO has already had a first class ticket booked for her back to San Diego. Claire calls the airline the moment the eticket arrives in her inbox and gets the charges reversed, and decides to ignore all communication devices for the remainder of the afternoon.

When she enters the hotel bar she's wearing the wig, and a typically touristy ensemble of Bermuda shorts, sleeveless button down, and a pair of obnoxious orange Crocs. She can see Owen sitting at the far end of the bar tucked away in a dimly lit corner, and considers walking out. Instead she scratches her head where the heat from her wig is becoming intolerable, and heads in his direction with a bit of extra force in her stride.

When she sits on the stool next to him and orders a jug of margarita, Owen turns to her and looks her up and down.

“Nice shorts.”

“It's Central America, its hot.”

“I saw the kids made it home safe.”

“Yeah.” She watches the barman jam ice into a blender and is silent for the thirty seconds it takes for the drink to mix.

“So what have you been up to?”

Claire can see him stiffen out of the corner of her eye, and takes a sip from her drink before answering. “Not much, you?”

“Not much.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Claire staring at herself in the mirrored bar backsplash, Owen jiggling his foot hard enough for her to feel it through the bar's cheap laminate footrest.

Claire can feel the mood shift a moment before he asks the question.

“Do you want to... I don't know go for a walk or something?” His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't been using it much.

“I have an entire jug of margarita to drink.”

“I thought your diet didn't allow tequila.”

“I thought about it, and I thought fuck it.”

He grins and looks down at what's left of his beer, sliding his finger down the condensation collected on the outside of the glass.

“You wanna share?” she asks, and he knocks back what's left in his glass in two gulps.

“I thought you were just going to torture me with irony.”

“I thought you liked my shorts.”

“They're fucking hideous. I mean the Crocs distract from them a bit but...” He trails off and tugs at the comfort fit at the back, where her shirt is tucked in bunching up along with the waistband ruching.

“I know, right? Where's a fannypack when you need one?”

They're quiet again for a while, a different bartender comes along and replaces Owen's empty with a margarita glass. Claire finishes hers and tops them both off.

“I'm sorry I left you behind at the airfield.” She's staring into her drink and flicking specs of salt into the melting slush.

“It's okay I mean... Heat of the moment and all that and you have responsibilities that I'm just gonna get in the way--”

“None of that matters, we had a deal and I just left you and I'm sorry for that.”

“Claire--”

“I don't want to be alone any more, and I know that's selfish, but I don't care.”

Owen scratches the back of his neck and Claire can't help but stare at his toned forearms and strong, large hands. She imagines those hands running down her body, gripping her waist and lifting her up until she's sitting on the bar, legs on either side of him.

“...back the island and get our stuff, right.”

“Huh?” She jolts out of her fantasy and makes a noise of agreement. “Do you have anwhere else? Like a apartment or something?”

“I've got a place in Portland that's rented out to a bunch of stoners.”

She laughs and it's the first time she's genuinely smiled since that day. “You going to kick them out? Itching for the beautiful scenery and miserable weather of the pacific northwest?”

He turns the corners of his lips down in an exaggerated frown. “Nah, thought I might hang around here for a bit, protect the locals from random pteranodon attacks. I hear you're pretty rad at the close range flying dino stuff.”

“That's what they say on CNN. FOX reckons it was a fluke.” Her cheeks hurt from grinning and he reaches out to run a hand through the slightly tangled strands of the wig.

“You wanna go for a strictly platonic sunset walk on the beach?” Claire deflates a little at his words, but her heart speeds up a little when she meets his eyes. They're intense and hungry and she shivers despite the tropical heat. He wets his lips with his tongue, and she puts her glass down on the bar, not bothering to finish it.

“Let's go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally turning into a pile of mush and I am sorry. I AM SO SORRY. THIS IS SO FLUFFY IDEK WHY I AM DOING THIS TO MYSELF.

The rain's pounding on Claire's umbrella, and she can feel droplets of water hitting her ankles and dripping down into her shoes as she runs through the the outdoor parking lot. Her bag's slipping down her shoulder, and she's struggling to keep a grip on her phone without losing the umbrella to a gust of wind.

“Where are you parked? I can't see you.” She squints through the rain and scans the rows of cars that aren't much more than dark shadows against even darker asphalt.

“I'm like... ten cars in front of you seriously.” The voice at the other end of the line is exasperated.

“I can't see you, are you behind that jacked up SUV?” She keeps walking, tilting the umbrella against the prevailing wind. She steps carefully to stop her feet slipping in her shoes.

“No, the row on the other side.” Claire finally sees the gray Jaguar, and makes a beeline, stopping for a moment to toss the umbrella into the trunk. He's already pushed open the passenger door and she ducks in, slamming it shut behind her and brushing drops of rain off her suit. “Hi,” he says, and hands her a microfiber towel he's pulled from the center console.”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and begins rubbing the rain off her ankles. “Hi.” She pulls a shoe off and pats down the inside. “Thanks for the ride.”

“It's fine.” He smiles at her, and swipes at a drop of water on her shoulder.

“Sorry I woke you up.” She's put the towel on the floor now, and is digging her toes into it.

“You didn't, I was playing Inquisition.”

“You sounded sleepy.”

“I was in a boring bit.” He checks the rearview mirror, and puts the car in reverse.

“I thought you said there were no boring bits.” She glances over at him, his profile is barely visible against the dark sky, but a nearby streetlight casts a weak glow against his hair. She feels a flutter in her stomach, and digs her toes harder into the towel.

“There are... a few boring bits which I cannot recall right at this point in time due to them being boring.”

He's pulling out of the parking space, and she squints through the downpour. The wipers are flapping against the windscreen, and the lights and trees of Portland are blurry and difficult to make out in the gloom.

“So how come you were so late anyway?” The windscreen is steaming up, and he pushes a couple of buttons on the steering wheel until a patch of clear glass starts appearing.

“The contract renegotiation hit a speedbump.”

“Should I ask?”

“You can, but you know the story about military contracts.”

Owen cracks a smile as he pulls up to a red light. “Man, it was so much easier when we both worked for the same evil corporation.”

Claire takes a swipe at the side window to clear some of the moisture. “Gosh all those conversations about raptors and fifty foot tyrannosaur hybrids over ice cream and Chardonnay. I sure do miss them.”

Owen winces. The light turns green, and he steps on the accelerator hard. The car takes off with a jerk, and Claire grips her seat. “You going to at least get the weekend off?”

“I would say probability around three percent.”

“Sexist old dudes?”

Claire makes a face and nods. “Mmm.”

Owen stays silent for the rest of the drive, and Claire stares out the window, tracing patterns in the mist in an effort to stay awake. When they pull into the garage of Owen's house, it's close to two, and he prods her in the shoulder after he turns off the engine.

“I'm awake.” She unclips her seat belt, opens the door, and picks her shoes up from the footwell. She has to dodge around her own car on the way to the door, and she makes a grumbling noise when she bumps into the fender. “I swear I am never taking TriMet to work ever again.”

“You say that at least three times a month.” He's right behind her now, hands on her hips and guiding her to the door that leads to the kitchen of the bungalow. She leans into him a little, and lets his chin rest on the top of her head for a moment.

“Yeah, well this time I'm for real.”

She pulls away from him once they're in the house, and heads straight for the pantry. “You want some?” There's a bottle of Syrah in her hand, and she's reaching for a single glass. It's a polite gesture, he's more of a beer drinker.

“Fuck it, why not.”

She looks at him, eyes sharp and assessing. “What, you out of beer or something?” She opens the refrigerator door. There's still two thirds of a six pack on the top shelf. When she turns around, he's scratching at his head, looking a little sheepish. “They called, didn't they?”

He raises his eyebrows and gives her a knowing look.

“You tell them where to go?”

“They're claiming I'm in breach of contract, and if I don't do it then they'll sue me.”

Claire turns back to the counter, fills the glasses almost to the brim, and tosses the already empty bottle in the recycling. “And if you do do it, then you'll be dead.”

Owen grins and looks at the floor. “Gosh golly gee, Miss Dearing, you sure do know how to break the bad news.”

She hands him the glass, and he thanks her. They stand in silence for a while, Claire sorting through the mail on the kitchen island, Owen fiddling with the fridge magnets. She's not really paying attention to the various junk and the bills she's already requested come by email only. She's looking at Owen's broad shoulders and at the curve of his back, hunched in resignation.

“Have you changed your mind? Do you want to go?”

“Not if it's just to secure Masrani's investment.” Claire steps toward him and puts her hand on his shoulder. He turns to her and grins. “Hey, at least I might get to see Blue one last time before she eats my face off.”

Claire claps him around the head, and walks towards the living room. “We've had a year to prepare for this.” She sets the glass on the credenza that separates the living space and the kitchen, and reaches into the cabinet. She pulls out a massive binder and sets it next to the wine. “We're ready.”

He nods. “We're ready.”

…

He sleeps with his bedroom door open, and he can hear her breathing and tossing in her sleep from the room down the hall. Deep, slow breaths. The occasional muttering or single word outburst. Sometimes he knows she's dreaming about the island, and he shuffles down the hall and lays next to her and holds her hand until she calms down. He knows she does the same thing for him when he's fighting and shouting out for the raptors.

Tonight she's just breathing. There's the occasional rustle of sheets, but she's been up for over twenty hours and the exhaustion hit her hard after they finished their drinks and watched five minutes of a twenty-four hour news channel. They brushed their teeth next to each other in the main bathroom, and he stopped himself from giving her a sleepy kiss when left her to remove her makeup in peace. Now all he can think about is curling up next to her on top of the blankets, tucking her head into his chin, and rubbing her back until she stops shouting out for Gray and Zach.

He knows he's turned into a desperate sap. He's not _that_ embarrassed about it either. Maybe a little sheepish that he's turned into a mushy sentimental cheeseball over a woman who isn't even interested in him romantically.

Okay, so maybe he's not particularly sentimental or mushy, just occasionally in need of physical comfort that isn't sticking his dick in a hot woman's vagina.

Now that he thinks about it, it's been a _long time_ since he's done that. Like... before the incident long time.

He swears, and rolls over onto his stomach. Then to his side, and finally out of bed entirely and to the bathroom to beat one out in the shower.

He's absolutely not thinking about Claire when he comes.

...

Claire sleeps until Midday, undisturbed by both work, and Owen rattling around the house. She grabs blindly at her nightstand, hand eventually connecting with the cellphone. Zero missed calls. She sighs and smiles, and snuggles down into the sheets for five more minutes.

She can hear Owen whistling in the kitchen, the crackle and smell of bacon making it through her half open door. There are plates clattering, and the sink's running, and she knows that he's got an assembly line going that is almost military in its precision.

Her hand is drifting towards the waist of her pajamas, and she plays with the skin of her hip, fingers brushing a scar from a piece of glass catching her when Blue smashed through the front window of the van. Her fingers travel lower until they're teasing around her clit. She arches her back, and snuggles the side of her face into the cool cotton of her pillow, imagining Owen's perfect thighs and muscular back leaning over the oven. She thinks back to Costa Rica, after the incident, but before he asked her to come back to Portland with him.

She remembers getting drunk on the beach and running her hands over those muscles before both of them came to their senses, scrambled up off the sand, and left for their respective rooms to sleep it off. She thinks about kissing him in a way far less chaste than after shooting the pteranodon, she thinks about running her tongue up his thick, strong neck, until her lips meet his.

She stiffens when she hears his whistle travel up the corridor, and snatches her hand out of her pants. There's a gentle knock at the door.

“Claire?”

She shifts, pretending she's just woken. “Mmm?”

“I made waffles.”

“Okay, I'll get up in a minute.”

He walks off back to the kitchen, and she sighs heavily and kicks off the duvet. She doesn't bother to put on a bra or panties, instead deciding on a _fuck it I'm horny and don't care about the consequences_ approach, but then thinks better of it when she realizes her tank top is white and very obviously transparent, and it's really not a good idea to try heading in that direction with Owen because of a very large list of arbitrary reasons that is steadily growing in her brain's Owen File. After a moments rummaging around in a drawer, she finds a black tank to layer over the top and follows the enticing smell of bacon into the kitchen.

His back is to her when she enters, but somehow he knows anyway. She hates that about him. “You sleep okay?” he asks, and she grunts in response.

The counter is completely clear and spotless, and he's wiping at the stainless steel of the cooktop with a cloth.

“I wasn't sure how long you were going to be, so food's in the oven ready when you are. You need more time to wake up?”

“I'm okay.” She gets a mug out of a cabinet and fills it up from the french press on the table. “Coffee, thanks.”

He takes the plates out of the oven and puts them on the table. “You wanna eat in here or in there?” He points to the living room.

She sits down. “Here.”

“Okay.” He sits opposite her and pours himself a drink of orange juice.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, and Claire deliberately overchews to avoid conversation. The folder from the night before is at the end of the table, and she can see the neatly printed label on the side that reads _InGen/Masrani Global Contract Dispute – Owen Grady._

“You're not really going to go, are you?” She swallows the mouthful of waffles and takes a sip of coffee. “You know the contract is bullshit, right? We've been over this.”

“Stop freaking out, I'm not going.”

“I'm not freaking out.” She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest.

“You are totally freaking out.” He downs his orange juice and pushes a piece of his breakfast around his plate, soaking up maple syrup in a huge chunk of waffle. He shoves the entire forkful into his mouth and doesn't bother swallowing before continuing, “You're freaking out because you don't want to go and face those assholes any more than I do.”

“Hey, I left that position voluntarily, don't pull that shit on--”

“Jesus, Claire. I'm not pulling any shit on you. I'm just saying neither of us really need even more reminders of what happened down there. You're still having nightmares, I try to punch Hoskins in my sleep... all I'm saying is it's not healthy, okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles. She grabs a crispy piece of bacon in her fingers and bites half it off.

“I can hire a lawyer, you know.”

She glares at him, and drops the other half of the bacon. “You are _not_ hiring a lawyer.”


End file.
